He jumped up, dressed, and threw clothes into his overnight bag. He repacked his laptop, bolstered his Sig Sauer, and, grabbing his luggage, he left. As he trotted down the stairs, he watched and listened, but there was no sign anyone else in the hotel was awake so early. He sped past the deserted front desk and slipped out the door. Paris was beginning to awaken. He moved quickly along the narrow side street. He scanned every doorway, studied the dark windows that watched him like the hundred eyes of a Greek monster, and finally blended into the growing traffic and few pedestrians on the boulevard Saint-Germain.
Eventually he was able to hail a sleepy taxi driver who delivered him to the Gare du Nord rail station, where he checked his suitcase and laptop. Still watching all around, he took a different taxi to the Pompidou Hospital to visit Marty. As soon as the wireless communications were up and running again, he knew Fred Klein would be in touch.
Chapter Nine
In her usual battered flat shoes and dowdy clothes, the dark-haired woman walked timidly along the exotic Paris street, redolent in the early morning with the odors of North Africa and the Middle East.
As she peered up, Mauritania stepped from his building’s vestibule. The diminutive terrorist was dressed in a loose raincoat and light corduroy trousers, looking like any Parisian workman. He glanced at her, and in that glance was the eagle eye of two decades of on-the-run experience. It missed little. Since her clothes were properly faded and cared-for, the flat shoes patched by a cheap repair shop, and the battered handbag that of a woman three times her age, as would be expected in a young but frightened soul, Mauritania was reassured. In his usually cautious way, he rounded several corners and doubled back, but the woman never appeared again. Satisfied, he entered the meacute;tro.
The woman had followed Mauritania through the first few turns, until his maneuvers convinced her he would be gone long enough for her purposes. She hurried back to his building, where the windows remained unlighted and showed no sign of activity. She picked the front-door lock, climbed the stairs to the third-floor apartment where Mauritania was staying, and picked that lock as well.
She stepped into what first appeared to be a tent in the wilds of Arabia or the heart of the Sahara. The rugs seemed to shift under her feet as if resting on sand. Carpets on the walls and ceiling closed claustrophobically in on her, and the rugs over the windows explained the dark windows at all times of the day and night. Amazed, she remained unmoving for some time, taking it all in, until she finally shook her head and went to work. Listening to be certain she was alone, she methodically searched every square inch of the rooms.
In the Pompidou Hospital, Smith sat beside the still-unconscious Marty, who lay small and frail in the muted light of the ICU. Outside the cubicle, a man in plainclothes had joined the pair of uniformed gendarmes. Marty’s sheets and blankets were still smooth, as if he had not stirred in days. But that was far from true. Marty was occasionally moving on his own, and meanwhile therapists were coming in regularly to work with him.
Smith knew all this, because as soon as he had arrived, he checked Marty’s computer chart. The chart also showed that his physical condition was continuing to improve. In fact, Marty would likely be moved from the ICU soon, even though he remained in a coma.
“Hi, Marty.” Smith smiled at him, took his hand, which was warm and dry, and again reminisced, recalling their childhoods, the years growing up together, and college. He covered the same territory as before, but with more details, because as he recounted the past, it grew more vivid in his own mind. As he was chatting, filling the time while, more important, trying to stimulate Marty’s brain, he had an idea.
“The last time we had a good long talk,” Smith said, “you were still at home in Washington.” He studied the sleeping features. “I heard you boarded an airplane and flew over here by yourself. Man, was I impressed. The only way I could convince you to even get near a plane was when we had trigger-happy gunmen on our tails. Remember? And now here you are, in Paris.”
He waited, hoping the name of the city would elicit a response. But Marty’s face remained listless.
Smith continued, “And you’ve been working at the Pasteur.”
For the first time, he saw Marty rouse. It was almost as if a wave of energy passed through him when he heard the word Pasteur. His eyelids fluttered.
“I’ll bet you wonder why I know all this,” Smith continued, hope growing inside him. “The daughter of Emile Chambord”
Marty’s chin quivered at the mention of the scientist’s name.
“told me you arrived unannounced at her father’s lab. Just walked right in and volunteered to help.”
Marty’s lips seemed to shape a word.
Excited, Smith leaned close. “What is it, Marty? I know you want to tell me something. It’s about the Pasteur and Dr. Chambord, isn’t it? Try, Marty. Try. Tell me what happened. Tell me about the DNA computer. You can do it!”
Marty’s mouth opened and closed. His chubby face flushed. He was struggling to assemble thoughts and words, the effort straining his whole body. Smith had seen this in other coma victims. Sometimes they awoke quickly, all their faculties intact; other times it was a rebuilding process. For some, it was slow, for others, faster, much as if they were retraining a muscle that had been weakened by lack of use.
Just then, Marty gave Smith’s hand a squeeze. But before Smith could squeeze back, Marty went limp, his face exhausted. It was all over in seconds, the struggle valiant but apparently too overwhelming for the injured man. Smith silently cursed the bomber, cursed whoever was behind all the violence. Then, as he sat there holding Marty’s hand, he resumed talking again. The antiseptic quiet of the room was broken only by his low voice and the inhuman clicks and whirs of machines, the blinking and flashing of LEDs and gauges. He continued on, working the key words into his conversation: Emile Chambord. The Pasteur Institute.
A woman spoke behind him. “M. Smith?”
He turned. ” Oui? ”
It was the nurse from the ICU front desk, and she held out a plain but expensive white envelope. “This is for you. It arrived not long ago, but I’ve been so busy I forgot you were here. I’m sorry. If I’d remembered, you could’ve spoken to the messenger yourself. Apparently, whoever wrote you has no idea where you’re staying.”
Smith thanked her and took the envelope. As she returned to the front desk, he tore it open. The message was simple and to the point:
Lt. Col. Dr. Smith,
General the Count Roland la Porte will be at his Paris home this morning. He requests you report to him at your convenience. Please call me at the following telephone number to name the hour you will arrive. I will give you directions to the general’s home.
Captain Darius Bonnard
Aide-de-Camp to the General
Smith remembered that General Henze had told him to expect an invitation to talk with the French general. This polite summons must be it. From what Henze had said, it sounded as if General La Porte was in the loop with the local police and the Deuxiegrave;me Bureau about both the bombing and Emile Chambord. With luck, he might be able to throw more light on Dr. Chambord and the elusive DNA computer.
A large part of the grandeur of Paris arose from its magnificent private residences, many of which were tucked on side streets under branching trees near the boulevard Haussmann. One of those fine houses, it turned out, belonged to General Roland la Porte. Built of gray stone, it was five stories tall, fronted by a baronial columned entrance, and surrounded by balustrades and fine decorative stonework. It looked as if it had been built in the 1800s, during the sweeping imperial reconstruction of Paris by Baron Georges-Eugegrave;ne Haussmann. In those days, it would have been called a town mansion.
Jon Smith used the old-fashioned knocker. The door was heavy and carved, the brass fittings gleaming.
The man who answered the door wore a paratrooper’s uniform with the rank of captain and the insignia of the French general staff. He decided in crisp English, “You must be Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith. You’ve made good time. Please come in.” Short, blond, and compact, he stood aside and gestured Smith to enter. “I’m Darius Bonnard.” He was all business, definitely military style.
“Thank you, Captain Bonnard. I guessed as much.” As instructed, he had called ahead, and Bonnard gave him directions.
“The general’s taking his coffee now. He’s asked that you join him.”